Sick Chicken
by Madblossom
Summary: Another sickfic, no plot to speak of. Yep, it's what I do.


They're miserable. A successful hunt (vamp nest, taken down in less than 30 minutes after they figured out the location, a new record), followed by a night on the town (not much of a town, but it had a bar and some pretty girls happy to lavish attention on some handsome strangers. Though to be honest, Sam suspects that they'd be happy to flirt with anyone male, with all their teeth, and not currently married to their own cousin), then both hunters woke up feeling flu-ish. Rapidly progressing to full blown, sick as all-get-up flu.

They're also a long way from home. Before they found the bunker, sick days meant an extra night or two in a crummy motel. Now, after having gotten used to the comforts of safe, stable, well-equiped, and best of all _no-cost_ housing, they want to ride out this flu from their own beds (memory foam = orgasmic sleeping conditions, who knew?) Which means a long (long!) drive through worsening symptoms.

This has happened before, and there's an unspoken rule that they don't stop for rest until someone officially calls it quits. Like a game of chicken; the one who can go the longest without complaining, or admitting weakness in the face of body inconveniences wins. Dean's proud to say (not out loud, of course) that he's undefeated in this game. Sam always caves first. This might be because Sam doesn't know about the game (irrelevant, in Dean's opinion). However, Dean's starting to think that this might be the bug that breaks his lifelong winning streak.

The rules (according to Dean, subject to change at his whim):

 _1) the goal is to reach a chosen destination without stopping to tend to one's ailment_

 _2) first person to ask the other to stop for more than a few hours rest loses_

 _3) both players must be sick or injured with comparable degrees of symptoms_

 _4) stopping to puke or shit does not count as defeat_

 _5) sleeping while the other person drives does not count as defeat_

 _6) no players may have an unfair advantage (such as temporarily having no soul)_

 _7) Cas is not allowed to play because he's either an angel (see rule 5) or is essentially a baby in a trenchcoat making the game kind of pointless (no offense to Cas)_

 _8) game is void if one person falls unconscious (preferably not while driving)_

 _9) cheating is acceptable, if it works out in Dean's favour_

 _10) big brothers may pull rank and order a rest period for a sick little brother (automatic defeat for Sam)_

He knows that Sam's feeling at least as gross as he does right now. They've already gone through a box of Kleenex and have made a significant dent in a second. There's a bottle of non-drowsy cough syrup (which tastes nothing like the promised cherry on the label) in the cup holder and they've been taking swigs directly from the bottle at regular intervals. Dean looks over at his brother, who is pale and shivering in the passenger seat. Sam has wadded Kleenex stuffed into his nostrils, having long since tired of repeatedly wiping snot from his face. Sam's not asleep, but he's halfway there, slumped against the window with eyelids drooping.

Sam's clearly got a fever, he's bundled up in two sweatshirts and at the last pit stop he fished out the old car blanket from the bottom of the trunk and has it pulled up to his neck. One small mercy is that neither of them can smell the awful stench coming from the blanket; it hasn't seen a washing machine in years (Dean makes a mental note to remedy this when they get home), and it's covered in all sorts of nasty: swamp muck, monster slime, and a few stains that are probably blood, but Dean doesn't remember whose anymore.

Dean suspects that he's running a fever too, though he can't be sure. Sam's got the heat blasting, and Dean's roasting. He's removed layer after layer of his own clothing, until he's now driving in just his tshirt and boxers. He'd take those off too, but Sam would never let him hear the end of it if he tried. Plus, if he were pulled over...

The last hour has been particularly bad. It's bright out. Very bright. On a different day, Dean might call it beautiful summer weather, perfect for sitting on the hood of the car with a cold beer. But not today. Today, the sun is boring a hole through Dean's retinas and into his brain. The light combined with the heat of the car have given Dean a nightmare headache. It feels as if the inside of his skull is shrinking around rapidly liquefying cranial matter, he can feel it sloshing around inside his head, threatening to escape, probably through his tortured sinuses. For once, Dean turns off the cassette player and tries to let the silence in the car soothe his aching head. Sam gives him a funny look when he does this, it's clearly a warning sign that something is very wrong with his brother. Fortunately(?) Sam's too miserable to address the issue, so the game continues.

Speaking of sloshing around and escaping, that's exactly what Dean's stomach is attempting. Sam's puked once already (not anywhere near the car, thank you very much!) and has been clutching a plastic grocery bag under the folds of his vile car blanket for about 20 miles, 'just in case' he needs it. Dean's pretty sure that at least one of them will need it. He hopes to God that it's not him, but it's not looking promising. The last pothole he hit on the road sent acid rushing up the back of his already sore throat, making him gag into his fist, turning towards the window so that Sam wouldn't see.

Dean would very much like to call it quits for the day. If they keep driving, they'll reach the bunker by nightfall. It's only a few hours away, but Dean isn't sure he'll last that long. Not even the lure of his bunker memory foam mattress is motivation enough to push through; he'll happily settle for any horizontal surface and 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep at this point. He decides to test the waters, looking to prod Sam into admitting that he's too sick to continue, "Hey Sammy, wanna turn driving?" (Which comes out more like "Hey Sabby wadda turd drivigg?", but of course Sam understands the gist). Sam groans and croaks "no, sorry Dean, maybe we could stop soon, like, for the night? I don't wanna drive anymore, I don't feel good."

Hallelujah.

10 minutes (and a small bit of credit card fraud) later, Dean and Sam are snoring in the beds at the Dusky Swan Motel. Dean can't remember the last time he was so happy to be off the road. Plus, there's the little bit of satisfaction that comes from knowing that he continues to hold the championship title in the game of sick chicken. This was a close round though!

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 **Author's notes:**

1) So, I probably should edit this a bit, but I probably won't. It doesn't have the greatest flow or sequencing, and the characters' actions/thoughts/words are not as in line with the show's portrayal of Dean and Sam as I'd like them to be. I also apologize for the overuse of parentheses (sorry!) Ah well. That's what I've got written, and so it shall be!

2) If anyone wants to have a little fun with my story and write their own games of sick chicken (or come up with a different name for the game, mine's kinda lame), please go for it! All I ask is that you reference Dean's rules, and give me a poke when you've completed your story.

Thanks for reading!

XxXx


End file.
